


The Friendly Confines

by scully1138



Series: The Friendly Confines [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action, Case Fic, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scully1138/pseuds/scully1138
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Panic overpowered him then and John thrashed wildly against the cords as they tightened around his throat, choking off his breath until he was gasping for air. 'John, no! Stop! Please,' Harold begged. 'What will be, will be,' he added softly..." John and Harold must protect a Chicago Cub, but the "friendly confines" of Wrigley Field hold their most perilous day yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published on another site about eighteen months ago, so it may look familiar to some readers. The time just seems right to share it here as well, especially with this gorgeous cover art by the amazing Wanderer. Thank you for bringing my story to life so exquisitely!

.

Chapter 1 

.

“Wrigley Field is the second-oldest stadium in professional baseball, after Fenway in Boston of course. Mr. Reese, did you know that before the ballpark was built this land was originally occupied by a late nineteenth-century seminary?”

John looked up at the iconic red and white sign that welcomed visitors and die-hard fans alike:

Wrigley Field  
Home Of  
Chicago Cubs 

He had certainly not expected to be standing outside Chicago’s famous ballpark today. But the Machine had a will of its own now, and this morning it had sent them here - and to the Cubs’ celebrated right fielder.

“The ivy that covers the outfield wall is a combination of Boston Ivy and Japanese Bittersweet…”

It was a perfect summer day, hot and sunny but not too humid, and even though the game was still hours away a festive atmosphere already surrounded the park. Lifelong Cubs zealots as well as casual supporters were gleefully gathering for Fan Appreciation Day - with early revelers from the neighborhood bars joining the carefree crowd. He took a picture for a group of tourists posing by the statue of Ernie Banks.

“That magnificent scoreboard was added in 1937. It’s actually manually operated by a scorekeeper who watches the game from inside of it and changes the numbered placards by hand.”

Normally the billionaire was all business, but Harold’s obvious pleasure at being near the venerable ballpark was touching and John was reluctant to interrupt him. 

He watched a moment longer as another family - a young couple and their two exuberant sons - bounded past him and up to a vendor selling little teddy bears clad in Cubs jerseys. From their conversation it was apparent that this was the boys’ first visit to the ballpark, and the children were beaming with excitement. 

John stole a wistful glance at his partner. On several occasions he had suggested they take in a game together, and each time he had been gently rebuffed. In many ways they were closer now than they had ever been, and the rejection stung more than he let on. He turned his gaze back to the ballpark and tried to force the thought from his mind. They had long ago accepted each other just as they were, and if Harold did not want to share this simple pastime with him, he was sure that his friend had his reasons. It was time to get to work.

“What do we know about our new number?”

“Chen-Lin Liang, twenty-six. Despite the enormous popularity of baseball in his native Taiwan, he’s one of only twenty-three Taiwanese players currently active in the Major League. He came up through the Cubs’ farm system and was a rookie sensation five years ago. Since then he’s averaged .313 and won four consecutive Gold Glove awards. He’s been called the best at his position since Hank Aaron.”

Harold paused and looked up at him.

“It would be severely disappointing if Mr. Liang were involved in something unsavory.”

“Any obvious threats?”

“Several, actually. Chen just took out a restraining order against an overzealous fan, and recently gained sole guardianship of his five year old daughter after an exceptionally ugly custody battle with his ex-wife. And just last week he abruptly severed all ties with his longtime agent. No reason was ever publically disclosed, which perhaps makes Jimmy Lee the most interesting of our possible suspects.”

A roar went up from the crowd gathered around Gate D as the team buses pulled up.

“Here comes our guy now, Finch.”

A fresh round of cheers and applause greeted each player as they disembarked, waving to the enthusiastic fans. The appearance of Chen, however, sparked a near riot as the excited crowd surged forward for a closer look at the All-Star. Security quickly whisked the surprisingly slight young man inside, but not before John had maneuvered close enough to clone the ballplayer’s phone.

He looked around uneasily. People were now streaming into the stadium at a steady pace, and by this afternoon both the ballpark and the surrounding Wrigleyville neighborhood would be jammed with fans, street mongers and media when the Cubs took on the rival Cardinals. The potential for collateral damage was enormous.

“Do we have eyes inside the park?”

“Come see for yourself, Mr. Reese.”

Harold was intently watching a small laptop, and as he tapped a key the screen scrolled through images of the park from every angle covered by the Wrigley security cameras: the grandstands and bleachers, the upper and lower concourses - even the clubhouses - before finally stopping on the field itself where long lines of fans were patiently waiting for a meet-and-greet with their favorite players. The grounds were ringed by policemen and press.

“The area seems secure for now. I suggest we pay a visit to Mr. Liang’s former agent.”

.

The modern Michigan Avenue office building was a prime piece of Chicago real estate - and _Lee Sports Representation_ occupied the entire top floor. Jimmy Lee operated one of the largest sports agencies in the country and represented athletes from every major sport, including several well-known Brazilian soccer stars. Prized by his clients for the record-setting contracts he negotiated, he was privately maligned by team owners who loathed his aggressive methods.

Mr. Lee wasn’t in but they were welcome to wait, and a thin, nervous secretary ushered them into the agent’s spacious office.

The room was elegantly decorated in a clean, minimalist style which had the desired effect of showcasing the stunning view of Lake Michigan, but the bright sunlight glinting off the water contrasted with a subtle sense of tension that seemed to pervade the company. A photo of Lee taken at the NFL draft revealed a squat man with a thick neck and pocked complexion, fiftyish and - like Chen - Taiwanese. The only other hint of the agent’s heritage was the intricately-etched ceremonial machete mounted on the wall behind his immense desk. 

Harold immediately moved to Lee’s computer, ghosting the company’s software and copying files. John restlessly scanned the office. His eyes came to rest on a framed newspaper article displayed on an adjacent credenza and he picked it up for closer examination. 

“Prominent Sports Agent Celebrates Political Victory,” read the caption.

The accompanying photo showed a jovial Lee shaking hands with Chicago’s mayor at a recent election. Jimmy Lee was the city’s twenty-fifth ward alderman.

The agent-turned-politician entered the room with the commanding air of a man accustomed to deference. He was well groomed and impeccably dressed, but something about his demeanor suggested an attempt at refinement that was still a work-in-progress.

He was accompanied by two muscular, stone-faced bodyguards who silently and formally took up a vigil on either side of him.

“Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. How may I be of service?”

The always-prepared billionaire flashed impeccable credentials.

“Harold Crane, ESPN. This is my photographer John Rooney. We’d like to get a quote from you for our story about Chen-Lin Liang.”

John looked away, fighting back a smile and wondering how Harold managed to say that with a straight face. He was far from his field of expertise, but still fairly confident that they looked nothing like sports reporters. And judging from the scrutiny they were receiving from Lee’s bodyguards, the goons weren’t buying it either.

But Lee himself was the epitome of professional politeness. 

“Chen-Lin is an outstanding ballplayer and a dear friend. We’ve known each other for many years.”

“And yet you no longer represent him.”

“We had a philosophical difference over an endorsement contract. I negotiated a deal with a major cola company, but he preferred to support the new vitamin water.” The agent shrugged. “It happens in this business. The soft drink deal would have been extremely lucrative for both of us, but in the end it was Chen’s option. The decision to part company was also mutual, by the way.”

Harold appeared to be considering this.

“That’s quite an impressive security detail you have, Mr. Lee.”

“You can’t be too careful these days - especially now that I’m getting into politics. And I do like the message it sends. Isn’t that right, Feng?”

He nodded towards the larger of the guards and didn’t elaborate, but it was becoming clear that Jimmy Lee was not a man to be taken lightly.

His phone buzzed and John surreptitiously cloned it.

“Yes, what is it?”

He turned away from them slightly and as Lee held the phone to his ear John noticed the massive gold ring that adorned his right hand. Two enormous diamonds framed the black onyx inlay, and tiny dragons - with more diamonds for eyes - were sculpted into the sides.

“I hope I’ve been helpful gentlemen, but if we’re finished here I really must take this call.”

The bodyguards brusquely escorted them out of the office.

.

“I still don’t understand why we just didn’t take a cab.”

They were on one of Chicago’s elevated “EL” trains that circled high above the downtown Loop, connecting it to the surrounding neighborhoods and nearby suburbs. “It would take forever to get back to the ballpark through game-day traffic, Harold. Think of this as a ride on the wild side.”

It was past the morning rush and their car was sparsely populated. John watched sympathetically as his partner stretched out his bad leg on the hard plastic seat. But he had more troubling concerns on his mind then the perils of public transportation.

“Finch, did you see Lee’s ring?”

“The one with the tastelessly large diamonds? How could I miss it?”

“And did you notice the insignia? The triangle surrounding those Chinese characters?”

“Indeed I did. When enclosed by a triangle, the _Hung_ represents the union of heaven, earth and man. It’s the symbol of the Chinese Triad.”

John gazed out the window apprehensively. The Taiwanese branch of the Triad was violent, brutal and cruel - even by organized crime standards. Ruthlessly disciplined and efficient, their weapon of choice was the meat cleaver, and they were well known for using body parts to send their messages. He had first encountered the Triad during his time with the CIA when another agent - a friend of his - had been sent to infiltrate the United Bamboo syndicate. Most of the man’s body was never recovered. The exception was his feet, which were returned severed and mutilated as a warning to anyone else who might dare trespass in their territory. John flinched at the memory. There was little doubt the man had still been alive when his feet were hacked off of his body.

He turned back to his partner, suddenly wishing that Harold was safely home in the library - with Bear for good measure. When he finally spoke, the billionaire looked troubled as well. 

“The Triad was responsible for a major game-fixing scandal in Taiwanese baseball a few years ago - the latest of many such events I’m afraid.”

It grew louder in the car as the train picked up speed, and John leaned in to hear over the din.

“Baseball is the national sport of Taiwan and this latest scandal nearly destroyed it there. It was a huge national embarrassment and the Taiwanese government cracked down with a very public campaign to eradicate organized crime from professional sports. The Triad lost millions of dollars and their control over the game. Perhaps with Mr. Liang’s high profile they see an opportunity to establish some influence over American sports and regain some of their lost profits.”

Harold shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat before continuing.

”The players in Taiwan earn considerably less than they do in this country and their cooperation was often obtained through simple bribery. Here - where baseball salaries are often astronomical - the Triad may be resorting to more dire means of persuasion.”

“And now Lee’s an alderman as well.”

“Organized crime is deeply connected to the political sector in Taiwan. It’s not at all uncommon for members of criminal groups to hold elected office. There’s even a name for that specific type of corruption. The Taiwanese call it _Black Gold_.”

Huddled in conversation at the far end of the car, they were a moment late in noticing the two bodyguards from Lee’s office slip onto the train at its latest stop. The larger of the goons - the one Lee had called Feng - held them at gunpoint while the smaller man brandished his weapon at the other passengers, motioning them out of the train. This was a brazen daylight assault and - John realized - a Triad declaration of war.

The attack came quickly but the former agent was already on his feet, forcing the mobsters back and away from Harold. The first blows confirmed his suspicion that these men were professional soldiers, expertly trained in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. But for the moment, at least, he was holding his own against the pair of them.

Then the smaller thug gave him an opening and John took it, grabbing the man’s arm and pulling him forward. He pounded down on the goon’s chest above his heart then rammed his fist upwards under the man’s chin, snapping his head back. The guard fell to the ground unconscious.

He spun to face the other mobster but Feng threw him back against the railcar’s sliding doors with such force that they abruptly retracted. A rush of wind and the clatter of the train racing along the tracks filled the car. The impact of the collision propelled John forward but the thug was ready for him, smashing down on his head with both fists and driving his face painfully into the corrugated steel of the floor. For a moment he lay there dazed.

Feng kicked him towards the open door until his lower body slipped out of train and gravity took over to finish the job.

John felt his hands slide over the shallow door tracks and he dug in with his fingers, trying not to look down as the wind whipped his body sideways threatening to dislodge his fragile grip. He reached up with his right hand and grabbed the railing that ran parallel to the door, but the forceful gales hammered his body, thwarting his efforts to climb back in.

He managed to pull himself high enough to peer inside the car, and with the rushing wind blocking out all other sounds the scene before him seemed like some nightmarish silent movie.

Harold was kneeling in front of the door, terror etched into every millimeter of his face, shouting something indecipherable and reaching out his hand - while Feng stood just a few feet behind him with his gun pointed at Harold’s head.

His hand was already beginning to slip, and John knew in that moment there was one final thing he could do for his partner. He removed his left hand from the track and in one smooth movement swung his arm around to his back and pulled out his gun. With his last bit of strength he held the weapon still for the second it took to shoot Harold’s assailant cleanly through the head. But the recoil blew him backward and he lost his hold on the railing.

He watched the horror spread over Harold’s face as he began falling toward the street below…

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

Chapter 2

.

“John! John, grab my hand. I’ll pull you back in!”

He was kneeling in front of the open door reaching for his partner, but John was looking beyond him. With all of his attention focused on his friend, Harold was only vaguely aware of Lee’s other henchman - even when John’s precise shot dropped the man at his feet. Their eyes met for an instant as John’s hand slipped away the railing.

With a quickness born of absolute terror, he caught his partner’s wrist, and somehow John swung his left hand up and grabbed onto Harold’s other arm just above the elbow. He felt his sleeve begin to tear away from his jacket and John slid back a few inches. Harold braced his good leg against the side of the car, contorting his back in the process and sending spasms of pain undulating down his spine, but he managed to steady them both. 

The train began to pick up speed and the wind battered John against the outside of the railcar. Harold fervently wished there was some mathematical equation he could summon to the rescue, but the only thing he knew with certainty was that the laws of physics were not on their side.

His sleeve ripped again until it was connected by the lining alone, and for a second he thought that John had slipped from his grasp. He tightened his grip on the other man but his arms were already trembling from the strain - and from a growing panic that he would not be able to hold on for much longer.

The train careened sharply around a curve and for a moment Harold himself almost pitched forward out of the open door. Adrenalin surged through him and he righted himself, but for the first time he saw real fear in his partner’s eyes. John’s expression quickly changed to one of acceptance, as if he was coming to peace with a decision.

“It’s time to let me go now, Harold. Be good.”

And with that he wrestled his left hand away from Harold’s grasp and released his hold on the torn sleeve. Harold felt John’s hand sliding down his forearm.

He was suddenly furious - shockingly, righteously furious - that his partner would try to make this choice for both of them. Did John really think he would let it end this way? 

Harold clenched John’s hand as it slipped past his own and grasped his friend’s wrist with his other hand. Pushing with his leg, and wrenching back with every bit of strength that rage, fear and adrenalin were providing him he dragged John into the train.

He fell backward and a fresh burst of pain shot through his spine, but John was sprawled next to him - alive and safe.

Harold let his head fall back on the dirty floor, his breath coming in short, violent gasps. His back and neck were throbbing, and for a moment he just tried to ride out the pain.

“Harold, are you okay? Harold?”

He was still trembling, but couldn’t tell if it was from physical exhaustion or the fright of yet another near catastrophe. And in trying to stand he discovered that his legs wouldn’t do their job, but John caught him before he fell and carefully helped him back to the uncomfortable seat, taking his place beside him.

“You’re never going to stop surprising me, are you?”

He knew John was trying to thank him, but every response seemed to lodge in his throat. His normally rational mind was overwhelmed by a jumble of conflicting emotions - not the least of which was his profound unhappiness that his partner had nearly been a willing participant in his own demise. He silently tried to compose himself.

John studied him anxiously. 

“I’m sorry about your suit…” he offered.

The mild apology set off all his fear and anger that was still at surface level, and Harold finally found his voice.

“I can always get another suit, Mr. Reese,” he snapped hoarsely. “Other things are not…replaceable. How dare you make that kind of decision? What on earth were you thinking, John? You almost…” 

He let the words trail off forlornly, but John was gently patting his back now, his voice calm and soothing. 

“It’s okay, Harold. We’re all right. Thanks to you I’m not going anywhere.”

The last of his anger drained away as suddenly as it had overtaken him and he immediately regretted his words, though there was nothing but compassion on his partner’s concerned face.

Still, he was mortified by his unseemly outburst. But John seemed to understand that as well, and gave him a conspiratorial nudge.

“You know this is one of those moments we’re going to laugh about someday.”

It took Harold a second to realize that his partner had already drawn a tiny smile out of him.

“Are you sure you’re all right, John?”

If his friend was even trying to keep the worry off his face he was doing a spectacularly poor job.

_“I’m_ fine,” he said at last. “And I’ve got this, Harold. Why don’t you get some rest and let me take it from here? 

Harold shook his head vigorously. The other man’s stubbornness was definitely rubbing off on him.

“Not on your _life_ , Mr. Reese.”

.

Harold led the way through the ballpark. John had reattached his torn sleeve with a few haphazardly placed safety pins, and judging from the man’s handiwork it was extremely fortunate that his friend had no aspirations towards tailoring. The former agent was strolling steadily by his side now, a little scratched up but otherwise seeming no worse for the morning’s adventure.

Harold wished he was as resilient. Every step sent a knifing pain through his back, and his limp was more pronounced then ever - a fact that was certainly not lost on his partner. But John clearly knew better than to mention it, at least not yet.

His press credentials allowed them generous access to the players, and they made their way through the clubhouse and onto the field. Chen was just wrapping up the autograph session with his adoring fans. He looked tired beneath his pleasant, boyish features but smiled when they approached, seemingly eager to please even after hours of shaking hands and posing for pictures.

“Mr. Liang, may we have a word please? We’d like to speak with you about your former agent, Jimmy Lee.”

Chen’s entire countenance changed at the mention of the alderman. He stared at John, terrified, and fell back a step.

“Please don’t hurt me. I promised Mr. Lee that I wouldn’t say a word. Please… I have a daughter…”

“We’re not here to harm you, Chen. We may be able to help if you can tell us what’s going on.”

The ballplayer looked at them miserably then hung his head, clearly too afraid to speak.

“Did Lee try to involve you in a gambling scheme?” Harold coaxed. “Is that what happened?”

For a moment Chen desperately searched their faces, then he walked them a few yards away from the other players. Once he began speaking all of his anguish came pouring out along with the words.

“He wanted me to start throwing games - striking out and committing errors in the field. I said that I would never do that.”

He looked back and forth between the two men, as if pleading his case to them.

“Even if I wanted to, this is a team sport. One player can’t control an entire game. But Jimmy said it was up to me to recruit other players on the team for him. He said that every player from my country would be required to do this, that it was all being arranged.”

Harold pondered the scope of Lee’s plan. There were Taiwanese players on the rosters of the Dodgers, Yankees, Brewers, Cardinals, Mets and Red Sox. Most of those teams were in the National League and two were in the Cubs’ own division. With the right amount of coordination between the players it would be very possible to subtly manipulate the outcome of numerous games.

“I refused and he was so angry. I gave him my word that I would remain silent but he said it was too late. He said that a message must be sent.”

“Did you go the police?”

“The police? Most of them work for him. There’s no one I can trust…”

John had been listening thoughtfully, an increasingly troubled expression on his face.

“It’s likely to happen here, Harold. What better way to send a message to anyone else who might be tempted to defy him than to execute Chen in one of the country’s most iconic public landmarks? We need to get him out of here _now.”_

“Not so fast, John. The game is about to start. We cannot simply walk out the front gate with the most famous player in the ballpark. And even if we could, Chen - and the other Taiwanese players - would still be in danger until Lee is permanently out of the picture.”

“What’s your plan, then?”

“If Mr. Liang is willing, we need to let this play out. If we can force Lee to reveal his involvement the entire scheme could be exposed publically.” 

Harold turned and addressed the ballplayer.

“Chen, we will do our very best to keep you safe, but obviously there is an element of risk.”

The young man looked more frightened than ever, but he didn’t hesitate.

“Gambling and organized crime have humiliated my country - the people of Taiwan are giving up on baseball and that must never happen. What do you need me to do?”

“Just do your job, Mr. Liang, and we’ll do ours.”

.

They settled into their seats in the top row of the press box, which was reserved for members of the out-of-town media. Harold flipped through different screens on his laptop, closely monitoring the tracker Chen had agreed to wear, as well as the Wrigley security feeds and his surveillance of Jimmy Lee’s office.

John sat to his right, trying to adjust the focus on the small binoculars they had hastily purchased at the concourse gift store, but to no avail. The little gadget looked out of place in his large hands, and he was currently smacking the helpless souvenir against his palm in frustration. Under other circumstances Harold would have found the incongruous sight wholly amusing. As it was he could not overlook a very unnerving irony - having just chastised John for his recklessness, he himself had made the most dangerous move of all by asking Chen to play in this game.

_Welcome to the friendly confines of Wrigley Field!_

The PA announcer boomed the greeting and the crowd cheered raucously. Chen was on the field warming up with the other players but even from this distance he looked nervous, fumbling an easy fly ball and then overthrowing the plate.

_And now, here are today’s starting lineups!_

Harold continued to scrutinize the security footage as the game got underway, intently searching for any indication of the threat. John was scanning the ballpark, alternating between the field, the grandstand and the rowdy “bleacher bums” sitting beneath the scoreboard. It was an impossible task for the two of them to cover the entire stadium though, and Harold was beginning to question his strategy. Not only was Chen’s life in their hands; gunfire in the ballpark would panic the crowd, and the ensuing chaos might claim dozens more.

But so far the game was proceeding uneventfully. The Cardinals stranded two men on base, and the vintage organ played a rallying chant as the Cubs took their turn at bat.

Suddenly John tapped him on the shoulder and pointed towards the radio announcer several rows below them.

The broadcaster was enthusiastically shaking hands with none other than the Triad boss himself.

_We have a very special guest with us today. One of Chicago’s most prominent citizens and Chinatown’s new alderman - Mr. Jimmy Lee!_

“No doubt he’s here to witness his message being sent.”

The politician stared directly at them then, and after a long moment he nodded a small greeting. His face was an impassive mask, but something about the way his small, cold eyes took them in sent a little shiver through Harold’s entire body.

_And the Cubs go down in order! There’s no score as we head into the second inning._

They watched helplessly as Chen took his place in right field.

“Mr. Reese, it’s going to happen at any moment!”

The first batter struck out on consecutive pitches.

John whipped the little binoculars around and peered above center field.

“Harold, look at the scoreboard! It wasn’t updated when the batters changed.”

They watched as the placard reflecting the third base umpire’s number was pulled away and replaced by the glint of sunlight on gunmetal.

“The sniper is _inside_ the scoreboard!” 

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

Chapter 3

.

“Hey, buddy! Watch where you’re going!”

John raced through the crowded concourse, oblivious to the scattering fans. The base of the scoreboard was separated from the entrance to the bleachers by a six-foot chain link fence, and as he scrambled over it Harold came through with an update.

“I’ve located the schematics for the scoreboard, Mr. Reese. The only way into it is through a trapdoor on the bottom.”

Not ideal at all, but the gunman’s aperture was near the very top of the towering structure, so there was still a chance that he could enter undetected.

John quietly lifted the trapdoor and cautiously poked his head through the opening, fully exposed to anyone who might notice his presence. But the sniper was completely focused on his quarry. The last few balls had been hit to right field, keeping Chen a moving target and buying them a little extra time. 

Panting from the heat and his sprint around the ballpark, John quickly assessed the situation. There were three levels of scaffolding inside the scoreboard and Lee’s assassin was perched on the highest one. The motionless body of the scorekeeper lay crumpled a few feet away. John checked without success for a pulse.

He had taken a gun off one of the thugs on the train but left it tucked in his waistband. The crowded bleachers were directly below them and any shots fired could easily ricochet into the surrounding fans. 

Suddenly the sniper spotted him and clearly had no such qualms. The gunman fired once, then twice more in rapid succession, sending a handful of roosting pigeons skyward in squawking indignation. An “EL” train thundered by, masking the sound of the gunfire.

John jumped up and caught the diagonal crossbar of the nearest scaffold, swinging himself out of the way. He began pulling himself up, hand over hand, careening from side to side as he dodged the next flurry of bullets. 

_It could be… It might be… It is! Home run!_

The delirious fans roared - unaware of the unfolding drama - as their cheers drowned out the racket within the scoreboard.

John fought for his breath as he climbed. The huge scoreboard was essentially a giant metal box, and on any given day the temperature inside was a good twenty degrees hotter than the surrounding air. At the moment it was easily 110 degrees inside.

Arms burning, he leaped up and grabbed the metal bar directly beneath the sniper. Momentarily in the gunman’s blind spot, John plunged his hand between the planking and pulled the man’s feet out from underneath him, sending the assassin to his knees and the rifle clattering to the ground below. 

_Today’s game is brought to you by Budweiser - America’s beer!_

John vaulted over the railing as the gunman regained his footing. He ducked to avoid a blow and his eyes fell on a box of unused placards. He grabbed one and swung it squarely at the other man’s throat. A ragged gash opened and blood spurted from the wound, but John nearly lost his footing on the narrow platform and for a moment he tottered precariously over the low guardrail. He lurched backward awkwardly and felt stone-like fingers close around his throat as the assassin viciously slammed his head into the railing. He flailed for his gun as his head made brutal contact a second time, and for a moment everything went black.

As consciousness threatened to slip away his hand finally found metal and he whipped the gun around, pressing it against his assailant’s heart. He pulled the trigger and the man crumbled, then slid off the slick platform plummeting to the hard ground below. John dropped to his knees gasping, but even before his mind cleared he knew that something was still terribly wrong.

Harold’s anxious voice should have been in his ear long before now.

“Finch? The sniper is down. Do you still have eyes on Lee?”

He dropped through the trapdoor and quickly scaled the fence.

“Harold, are you there? Are you all right?”

Apprehension rising with every moment of silence, he walked swiftly through the concourse, searching the ballpark for any sign of his missing partner.

“Damn it, Harold. Answer me!”

“Are you looking for your friend with the glasses? My new favorite _sportswriter?_ ”

John stopped dead as every fear was confirmed. Shoulders sagging, he slowly turned to face Jimmy Lee. The politician silently held out his hand and John relinquished his gun.

“Where is he?” His low voice was almost a growl.

“Oh I have every intention of taking you to him. But whether you see your friend again or not is entirely up to you. You would do well to remember that I’m a popular man. I have many friends and they’re never far away.”

On cue, two bodyguards fell in with them as they walked through the concourse. Alderman Lee was in no great hurry, pausing frequently to greet constituents and well-wishers along the way. John kept his head down. He had no intention of jeopardizing his only chance of getting to Harold. Even so he missed nothing, and it was obvious that Chen had been right about the Triad boss’s connections. The majority of the policemen inside the park nodded deferentially as he passed - a few even greeted him openly.

They reached the lower concourse.

A few feet past the ramp was a short cinderblock hall, cordoned off by a chain bearing a sign which read “Authorized Personnel Only.” 

Another sign near the entranceway simply warned “Do Not Enter.” And since a popular beer concession was located just a few yards beyond, no one ever did.

One of Lee’s henchmen unlocked the chain and motioned John through, leaving no doubt about the identity of the authorized personnel. At the end of the hall Lee slid a black and gold card through the keypad and the heavy door swung open. As they entered a dimly lit corridor it closed behind them, blocking out every sound of the game and the crowd. 

After twenty or so yards they made a sharp right turn and John was startled to see a steep, narrow stairwell before him. The structure had been recently restored and he couldn’t determine its age, but the steps led down to a musty tunnel that was clearly from another era, now incongruously lit by a procession of LED camping lanterns. They walked wordlessly through the claustrophobic passageway until they reached another door, this one of solid wood. It opened to reveal a deteriorating basement room illuminated by more of the LED lanterns.

Harold’s eyes locked onto his as he entered the cellar. His friend was seated in the center of the room, ankles tied to a chair, and arms bound tightly to the little wooden table in front of him. 

One of Lee’s goons approached John holding a thin rope with two overhand knots at one end, forming a loop in between. Just in case he was unclear about the situation, another of the guards held a gun to Harold’s head. He allowed himself to be bound to a pillar about five feet in front of his partner, not resisting as the thug caught his wrist in the rope, wrenching his arm painfully back and across the column. 

The rope was looped over and around his other arm and pulled back over his shoulder near his neck, crossing down over his chest. The cord was pulled behind him again, this time tightly binding John’s other wrist around the pillar before snaking around the opposite side of his neck. The guard worked swiftly now, looping the cord snugly around his throat - and all the while weaving an elaborate web of knots around John’s chest and arms. The man nodded to his boss when he was finished.

“A seminary once stood where the ballpark is now,” said Lee, unwittingly echoing Harold’s words of a few hours earlier. “That tunnel connected the seminary to the church that built it, but all that remains of the sanctuary is this cellar.” He shrugged. “There’s a Starbucks above us now.”

As the politician spoke John cautiously tested his bonds, flexing his muscles against the cords. At the subtle pressure they tightened further across his chest and he flinched in surprise, unconsciously glancing over at the crime lord.

Lee was only too happy to enlighten him.

“The _hojojitsu_ rope form is an ancient and most effective method of restraint. Those knots are designed to slip - and tighten as a person struggles. The _hojojitsu_ will kill rather quickly if you fight it. The choice is yours.”

The crime lord moved to John’s right where he had a closer view of both his prisoners, and as his men took their positions around him John recognized the traditional Triad hierarchy. As _Dragon Head_ , Lee was flanked by his officers, _Vanguard_ and _Incense Master_. Guarding the door were deputies _White Paper Fan_ and _Straw Sandal_. Several unranked soldiers - _Blue Lanterns_ \- milled around the cellar. And taking a position next to Harold was _Red Pole_ , the enforcer, whose job it was to carry out brutal punishment to those who offended the Dragon Head. A quiver of dread ran through him.

“I’m sure you’ll understand my curiosity when you rushed out of the press box so abruptly. You managed to save Chen - for now - but in your haste you left your partner unprotected. Was that a noble sacrifice, or were you just very careless with your friend’s safety?”

The words hit their mark and Harold caught his stricken look.

“You were doing your job, John, and we both know that.”

It was true, of course, but that did nothing to quell the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The crime lord observed the exchange with grim satisfaction. 

“I lost quite a few good men today, thanks to you. Loyal, highly-skilled soldiers who will be missed. But that’s the cost of doing business, unfortunately. Much more disturbing was the discovery that your partner has breached my private security network, and has been spying on my company and other business affairs. His interference has compromised information of a highly sensitive nature. This man has made me appear weak in the eyes of both my allies and my enemies and that will not be tolerated. A message must be sent. 

“Your friend will find such an intrusion difficult in the future - _without his hands._ ”

He turned to Red Pole and addressed the hulking man congenially.

“Why don’t you show them, Huang?”

The enforcer produced an enormous nine-inch knife and brandished it with chilling ease. Lee directed his next comments to Harold, who was staring at the large blade as if mesmerized.

“That’s a classic Takeda meat cleaver. It’s designed for hog and beef carcasses, but we’ve found it to be extremely versatile. And it’s quite well-balanced. A good cleaver should be a joy to hold.”

He let the words hang there a few moments before continuing.

“There’s a real art to this sort of thing, you know. Would you like to see an example? Jin! Come here, old friend.” 

A stooped man with hollow eyes emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room and walked absently to stand beside Lee. The mobster embraced him, and as Jin raised his arms the lantern light fell across the ragged, mutilated stumps where the man’s hands should have been. 

“My oldest friend was caught stealing from me. It was unfortunate, of course, but mercy is weakness.”

Jin continued to stare vacantly at them.

“I’m still quite fond of him, but I’m afraid this whole sad business has affected his mind.”

For the first time Harold looked truly terrified and he cast a pleading look into John’s eyes. 

Against his will, an image rose before him of Harold sitting silent and unmoving in the library, unable to tap his many keyboards or brew his tea, unable even to adjust his glasses or reach out and stroke Bear’s soft coat. If there was a fate worse than death for his friend, this was surely it.

“Are you ready, Huang?”

Red Pole smiled and clapped his hand down roughly on Harold’s shoulder. The billionaire jumped and the little chair chattered violently against the cement floor. The soldiers chuckled nervously, trying to dispel some of the tension that had been building in the room. 

Panic overpowered him then and John thrashed wildly against the cords as they tightened around his throat, choking off his breath until he was gasping for air.

“John, no! Stop! _Please!”_ Harold begged. “What will be, will be,” he added softly.

Lee smiled at them coldly for a moment, then nodded to the enforcer.

“Do it!”

Harold met his gaze with the bravest look John had ever seen, but his partner’s eyes filled with tears as the blade swung down.


	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter 4

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John lunged with all his might. Instead of fighting the ropes on his arms he planted the sole of his foot squarely back against the column to which he was bound, using the strength of his legs to drive himself forward. For a moment he strained against the pillar, the tightening cords shredding his skin. Finally the rotting wood gave way. With a dull crack the post splintered apart and the ropes slackened. John threw himself into Red Pole just as the cleaver gashed Harold’s wrist.

The butcher tumbled backward and John drove him into the concrete, one hand tightening around the goon’s throat and the other crushing the man’s fist until the cleaver dropped to the floor. John seized it and freed Harold, then cut away the tangle of ropes still clinging to his own body.

He reeled and glared at Lee ferociously. Cleaver in hand, he was sorely tempted to give the crime lord a taste of his own medicine, but that move would leave Harold unprotected from the gangster’s thugs and he wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

For an instant Lee was dumb with shock, but fury quickly restored his voice.

“Finish this!” he screamed at his guards. Rage distorted his pocked face, and in the weird shadows cast by the lanterns he looked like some monstrous amphibian.

Eyes gleaming, the soldiers surrounded them, each one eager to make the kill and honor the Dragon Head. John spun - wielding the cleaver horizontally - and momentarily forced the men back. But there were too many of them for even him to take on alone, and he knew it would all be over quickly. 

“John, watch out!”

He ducked as a large piece of concrete narrowly missed his head. Dirt and gravel had been trickling down from the ceiling where he had dislodged the column and now larger pieces were beginning to break off. 

It gave him an idea, a dangerous one to be sure but at least it would give them a chance.

He caught Harold’s eye and held it for a long moment, and wondered if that’s what this would come down to now, that they could say goodbye to each other without even needing the word.

Then he threw his shoulder, with all his weight behind it, into the column between Lee and himself. It cracked into two jagged halves, and the top portion ripped away from the ceiling showering them in dirt and bits of brick. There was another pillar a few yards to the crime lord’s right, and John kicked through it cleanly. The column crumbled, fracturing the rafter above as it tore away. Fragments of stone and decaying wood began raining down.

“That’s enough, John. Get out of there!”

But he was within reach of the backmost pillar, which was surrounded by an already-panicking group of Lee’s soldiers. He rammed into it, and as it toppled a large section of the brick ceiling broke off with it, falling whole onto the screaming bodyguards and sending up a storm of dust in its wake. The impact shook the ground beneath their feet.

There was a startling _pop!_ and then another one. The cavern grew dim as two of the lanterns were crushed beneath the debris. 

The entire cellar was unstable now, and the old walls rattled precariously. With a low, thunderous rumble the main support beam cracked and crashed to the floor, crushing Lee beneath it. One arm was mangled underneath him, and with the other he flailed futilely at the massive beam. Blood trickled from his mouth, but that did nothing to prevent his screams and curses from adding to the chaos. His remaining bodyguards bolted for the tunnel.

Detritus filled the air obscuring his vision, and at every turn John stumbled over the mounting rubble. Another lantern was smashed and extinguished. He lost his bearings in the murkiness, nearly falling backward over the prone form of the crime lord.

“John?” He could hear Harold choking on the swirling dust. “John, where are you?”

He followed his partner’s voice back to him.

“It’s all right. I’m still here.”

They were being pummeled by debris now. Jin and a few of the soldiers had made it to the door, but as he tried to guide Harold toward the exit another rafter shattered, and a jagged shaft of wood nearly impaled him. John jumped just in time and the timber grazed him instead, leaving a cluster of splinters in his arm and blocking their only path. He grabbed Harold and pushed him against the stone wall, using his own body as a shield as bricks and wood rained down on them.

The noise was deafening, but not loud enough to drown out the cries and moans of the dying soldiers. The cavern quaked, and rough pieces of concrete - remnants of the old church’s foundation - began to plummet. John pressed them closer to the wall. The final lantern was crushed and went out, immersing them in blackness.

Abruptly, silence became the loudest sound in the cellar. As John’s burning eyes cleared and adjusted to the darkness, their surroundings came into dusky focus. The tiny patch of ceiling above them was cracked but stable; the one remaining pillar trembled but held. A fine mist of dust continued to powder them, but they were safe.

“Did we make it?”

Somehow the simple question - delivered in Harold’s customary dry tone as they stood amidst this utter wreckage - struck him as funny and he realized that he was grinning like a lunatic.

Or maybe he was just relieved to hear that voice again.

He let a weary hand fall on his partner’s shoulder.

“We made it, Harold. We made it.”

A dim light shone where the wooden door stood slightly ajar, and John cautiously moved some of the debris aside, clearing a path for them. When they reached the exit he turned and looked back at the remnants of the cellar. 

The guards were buried beyond sight. All that remained visible of Lee was his ring-adorned hand, still twitching and reaching upward through the rubble as if pleading for mercy. John helped Harold into the tunnel and closed the door behind them. 

.

_Go Cubs go! Go Cubs go! Hey Chicago what do you say? The Cubs are gonna win today!_

The clamor of the zealous crowd singing along with the local anthem met their ears as they made their way back through the unmarked door and into the concourse.

Harold stumbled a little and John noticed for the first time that his wrist was bleeding freely where the cleaver had broken the skin. The cut was filthy, and there was no way to tell how deep it was. 

He ripped a first aid kit off the wall near the _Fan Services_ booth. 

John turned Harold’s hands over gently in his own, examining them as if he was really seeing them for the first time. He carefully cleaned the wound, and when it became apparent that the arteries were undamaged he let himself breath again. A soft dressing and a pressure bandage quickly staunched the bleeding.

“What do you think, have we had enough excitement for one day?” John knew that he certainly had.

Harold looked back at him thoughtfully, and for the second time that day his partner truly surprised him.

“Actually John, I was hoping you would buy me a beer.”

.

A southwest wind was blowing out of Wrigley and it was a high-scoring, entertaining game. During the seventh-inning stretch they had gotten word to Chen that he was safe, and the ballplayer’s relief was palpable even from their seats in the grandstand.

_Their_ message had been delivered by an accommodating beer vendor who was now off celebrating the best tip of his life.

Harold looked at his still-attached hand - and the cold beer he was holding - and was profoundly thankful for them both. John signaled for a couple of hot dogs to be passed down the aisle, and Harold was acutely aware of _everything_ that he had to be grateful for. He had never expected to enter a ballpark again. But as he looked out at the game he realized that there were parts of his past - memories he had longed to reclaim - that didn’t hurt as much anymore. Or at least they hurt in a different way, like a good pain that reminded him of the people he loved - those he had lost and left behind - and would never forget. Perhaps it was time to start reclaiming other things as well.

John hadn’t questioned his request to stay, but he could feel his partner’s curious, concerned eyes on him. Harold knew that he had wounded the other man with his constant refusal to see a ballgame with him. It wasn’t his nature to share personal information, and he barely understood his present feelings himself, much less explain them to John. But suddenly everything felt undeniably _right_ \- right time, right place and certainly the right companion.

He turned to look at his friend, and John nonchalantly shifted his gaze back to the game. Harold focused his eyes on the field as well.

“Nathan took me to my first baseball game. He bought me my first beer.”

John looked directly at him then, intrigued by the admission, and Harold met and held his sympathetic gaze.

“I’d never had much interest in sports - never saw the point, I suppose. But Nathan became quite a Red Sox fan while we were at MIT and he began dragging me to games. Eventually I started enjoying them as much as he did. Everything was so different then. It was such an _innocent_ time - before IFT, and long before we ever thought about building the Machine. But then as you know our lives got - complicated. For years we kept saying that we were going to make it back to Fenway - and we were about to. Nathan bought Red Sox tickets to celebrate my engagement to Grace.” He looked away to the field again.

“After he died I never went back…”

His partner had no words at first, and they sat together silently for a few minutes watching the game. An infield hit sent a runner to second base. 

“I’m sorry, Harold.” John finally said quietly. “And thank you. It couldn’t have been easy for you to tell me that.”

Harold felt a wry smile play across his face. 

“Actually it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I thought it would be.”

He looked at John and realized for the first time what an odd, disheveled sight they were, casually watching the game in their ruined suits under the warm late-afternoon sun. Well, they would certainly never forget their first baseball game together. 

Apparently the day had taken its toll on everyone. They watched as Chen dropped a routine fly that should have ended the game. Instead the runner scored and the next batter struck out, sending the teams into extra innings.

Harold raised his plastic cup.

“Here’s to having many more innings left in _our_ game, John.”

“Cheers, Harold.”

Finally being back inside a ballpark felt hopeful in a way he couldn’t really explain. And he was here with John, whose friendship was a comfort he had never expected. Despite the rigors of the day, Harold felt strangely at peace.

“John?”

“Yes, Harold?”

“How would you feel about owning a baseball team?”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the readers of this story, both new and old. I appreciate all of your kind comments and every kudo!


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